The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.

        A drearier moaning through the pine did go

      As if a human voice complained and cried

      For one long minute; then the sound grew low,

      Sank to a sigh, and sighing sank and died.

      Together at the silence two voices mow—

      His, and the clock's, which, loud grown, did divide

      The hours into live moments—sparks of time

      Scorching the soul that trembles for the chime.

        He spoke of sins ancestral, born in him

      Impulses; of resistance fierce and wild;

      Of failure weak, and strength reviving dim;

      Self-hatred, dreariness no love beguiled;

      Of storm, and blasting light, and darkness grim;

      Of torrent paths, and tombs with mountains piled;

      Of gulfs in the unsunned bosom of the earth;

      Of dying ever into dawning birth.

        "But when I find a heart whose blood is wine;

      Whose faith lights up the cold brain's passionless hour;

      Whose love, like unborn rose-bud, will not pine,

      But waits the sun and the baptizing shower—

      Till then lies hid, and gathers odours fine

      To greet the human summer, when its flower

      Shall blossom in the heart and soul and brain,

      And love and passion be one holy twain—

        "Then shall I rest, rest like the seven of yore;

      Slumber divine will steep my outworn soul

      And every stain dissolve to the very core.

      She too will slumber, having found her goal.

      Time's ocean o'er us will, in silence frore,

      Aeonian tides of change-filled seasons roll,

      And our long, dark, appointed period fill.

      Then shall we wake together, loving still."

        Her face on his, her mouth to his mouth pressed,

      Was all the answer of the trusting maid.

      Close in his arms he held her to his breast

      For one brief moment—would have yet assayed

      Some deeper word her heart to strengthen, lest

      It should though faithful be too much afraid;

      But the clock gave the warning to the hour—

      And on the thatch fell sounds not of a shower.

        One long kiss, and the maiden rose. A fear

      Lay, thin as a glassy shadow, on her heart;

      She trembled as some unknown thing were near,

      But smiled next moment—for they should not part!

      The youth arose. With solemn-joyous cheer,

      He helped the maid, whose trembling hands did thwart

      Her haste to wrap her in her mantle's fold;

      Then out they passed into the midnight cold.

        The moon was sinking in the dim green west,

      Curled upward, half-way to the horizon's brink,

      A leaf of glory falling to its rest,

      The maiden's hand, still trembling, sought to link

      Her arm to his, with love's instinctive quest,

      But his enfolded her; hers did not sink,

      But, thus set free, it stole his body round,

      And so they walked, in freedom's fetters bound.

        Pressed to his side, she felt, like full-toned bell,

      A mighty heart heave large in measured play;

      But as the floating moon aye lower fell

      Its bounding force did, by slow loss, decay.

      It throbbed now like a bird; now like far knell

      Pulsed low and faint! And now, with sick dismay,

      She felt the arm relax that round her clung,

      And from her circling arm he forward hung.

        His footsteps feeble, short his paces grow;

      Her strength and courage mount and swell amain.

      He lifted up his head: the moon lay low,

      Nigh the world's edge. His lips with some keen pain

      Quivered, but with a smile his eyes turned slow

      Seeking in hers the balsam for his bane

      And finding it—love over death supreme:

      Like two sad souls they walked met in one dream.1

        Hanging his head, behind each came a hound,

      Padding with gentle paws upon the road.

      Straight silent pines rose here and there around;

      A dull stream on the left side hardly flowed;

      A black snake through the sluggish waters wound.

      Hark, the night raven! see the crawling toad!

      She thinks how dark will be the moonless night,

      How feeblest ray is yet supernal light.

        The moon's last gleam fell on dim glazed eyes,

      A body shrunken from its garments' fold:

      An aged man whose bent knees could not rise,

      He tottered in the maiden's tightening hold.

      She shivered, but too slight was the disguise

      To hide from love what never yet was old;

      She held him fast, with open eyes did pray,

      Walked through the fear, and kept the onward way.

        Toward a gloomy thicket of tall firs,

      Dragging his inch-long steps, he turned aside.

      There Silence sleeps; not one green needle stirs.

      They enter it.